


30 Days of Writing Challenge

by uro_boros



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 30 days of writing challenge, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 03:58:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uro_boros/pseuds/uro_boros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>beginning. accusation. restless. snowflake. haze. flame. formal. companion. move. silver. prepared. knowledge. denial. wind. order. thanks. look. summer. transformation. tremble. sunset. mad. thousand. outside. winter. diamond. letters. promise. simple. future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginning

prompt one: beginning

They meet, quite literally, by bumping into each other. Papers go flying, coffee spills--not on her, luckily, but on the leg of his trousers. 

"I'm so sorry," she says, gushing the words out as she ducks to the ground to brush off his pants with the handkerchief in her purse and gather his papers. The coffee's old and more lukewarm than hot, but his pants are stained regardless, and his papers are flying in the wind. It's a great start of the day, considering--except it's not a start for her at all, but rather an end, an all nighter pulled to finish the last of her work before the beginning of summer.

The lack of sleep would explain this.

Above her, his voice comes, a pleasant baritone marked with a bit of an accent (southern, her mind places, the good old boy drawl the girls in her dorm swooned over). "It's okay," he's saying, although it's really not, Madeleine thinks. His pants are ruined.

"I can buy new pants," he adds, and now he's laughing a little. The hitch of breath with his laugh catches on his vowels, smooth and rounded. It's a very pleasant voice, all in all. Madeleine understands the swooning all of a sudden.

"I just," and she makes a little fussy motion with her hand, her cheeks bright red, "this is so embarrassing. I'm so sorry!" And she looks up then and--and a pleasant appearance accompanies the pleasant voice, and that's unfair, isn't it. He's tall and blonde and handsome and Madeleine's a frizzy little mess who just spilt coffee all over him and lost all of his papers.

But he's smiling at her, and his hand is extended out as if to pull her up. It takes her a moment to realize that's exactly what it's for. When she grasps it, his palm is rough and warm against hers, and their hands fit perfectly and she's cursing the professor who wanted a twenty page paper turned in at six in the morning even more than she had been already.

It really isn't fair.

"The way I see it," he's saying, "I owe you a coffee." And he's still smiling and Madeleine's thinking, no, this is all wrong, I owe you pants, but she's saying yes before she even realizes she is and if anything his smile grows even brighter.

So it's over a warm coffee an hour later that she learns his name--Alfred--as he jiggles his stained leg up and down under their table. For it being the end of something, it feels strangely like a beginning.

She thinks she might write her professor a thank you note later.


	2. Accusation

prompt two: accusation

"What's his name?"

It's a simple statement. There's nothing attached to it, no heavy weight--she's just asking, the way she asked what he wanted for dinner or if he thought it would rain today. Roast beef and no, were his answers. It's the kind of day it should rain on, but the sky is irritatingly clear of all its early morning clouds, a crisp and proud blue. 

It's not the day for this, even if she doesn't realize what this exactly is.

"His name's Matthew." Later, he'll be proud of how steady his voice is, how even. He'll rehearse his lies in a mirror, practice hiding all his tells--for now, he twists the gold band around his fourth finger, his hands hidden under the table. "He's my new intern."

"I like that name," she says, smiling. "Sounds like he's a nice young man. You should invite him over for dinner some night."

"Jan, you never cook." And his voice goes slightly accusing before he can stop it, her smile tugging down into a frown. He doesn't want Matthew over for dinner, young Matthew, curly-haired and bright-eyed and warm in a way that his wife never is. Matthew's something just for him, curled on the couch in Alfred's office, pouring over his college textbooks--voice soft and familiar as he recites, "We were eighteen, and had begun to love life and the world.."

She wipes the napkin at the corner of her mouth, smears it with red lipstick. "Just because I don't doesn't mean I can't," she says, and on the table her fingers tap an unsteady beat, pointlessly nervous.

He wonders how bad of a person he is and when he became this way. If it started when he said I do, a lie through clenched teeth, or if it started when Matthew smiled at him for the first time.

"I should be going," he says instead, rising to his feet. Jan gives him an unsure smile, and if her eyes are a bit damp at the corners, she never asked for the truth from him. They're both liars in the end.

It's the type of day where it should have rained, he thinks.


End file.
